Memories of Flowers
by spiritore
Summary: As a storm slowly brews, two assassins meet for a few moments in a certain flower shop. WK/Noir crossover.


Spoilers: Let me see . . . pretty vague spoilers for Yohji's past and certain occurances during WK. Spoilers for Noir are pretty vague as well . . . Somebody yell at me if you don't think so.

Warnings: slight cussing?

Notes: Once I started musing about what would happen if two certain assassins meet, the idea wouldn't leave me alone. So here you have it. Feedback would be appreciated.

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Memories of Flowers

by Orerinia

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The sun faded in the distance, dark clouds wrapping around its light, absorbing it for themselves. They built in the sky, slowly covered the blue expanse with their dark hands, seeking to feed upon each other as they grew. The heavy weight of air sent people scurrying to finish up their business, none wishing to be caught in the oncoming storm.

Yohji dropped his cigarette stub on the ground, grinding the small red ember that glowed at the end of it out with the heel of his shoe. Business had been as slow as a snail all day--which was fortunate since only two of the flower shop's four employees were off on business of their own, one to spend a weekend on the countryside and the other . . . well the other was doing whatever he was doing. He frowned at the clouds before turning to his companion, who was standing in the doorway of the small flower shop where they worked, "Maybe we will close up early today, hm?"

"Maybe," Omi brushed back a strand of his dusky blond hair. "We should bring in the outside displays. They won't last if they stay out in this storm."

"You're right." He grinned at Omi even as he bent down to pick up a potted plant. "I still say we close up shop early." Anything was better than sitting in an empty store waiting for customers that would not come. It would be a break of sorts. A nice, unexpected break where he could do what he damn well pleased, even if it was just sit on the couch, sipping a beer and teasing Omi. "This storm is going to keep everyone away."

Omi paused, balancing several potted flowers in his arms, biting his lip slightly. "Aya-kun wouldn't be happy about that . . ." Really, Aya was a bit over-zealous about keeping the flower shop open at all times. Something about if it's says it's open during certain hours, then it will be open during those hours. Everything in control and as it should be was what Aya liked, probably because it rarely happened that way. Yohji understood, but did Aya have to make it apply to the flower shop? And did Omi have to stick by his word? "But if we stay open for another hour after the storm hits and then close up because no customers have shown, he can't really get mad at us."

"There's an idea!" His faith was restored in the kid. No sane person would want to watch a shop, during a storm, when the probability of having customers coming in was zilch. "Hurry, let's move these things before we get drenched doing so."

It was not long after that Yohji watched the first fat drops of rain splatter on the ground. The wind was picking up and shortly it would be bashing the rain into anything and everything, flooding streets and making life hell, all in all.

He could feel Omi's presence at his back and turned around, "Looks like it's going to be a hell of a storm, eh, kid?"

"Sure does." Blue eyes that seemed to be far away from reality gazed back at Yohji. Lost in thoughts it seemed. Well, this was surely the kind of weather to do that in. Omi shook his head and smiled ruefully, "I'm going to make sure all the windows are closed upstairs, then check on the plants in the back. All right, Yohji-kun?"

"Go ahead, Omi. I'll finish watering everything up here and," he smirked, "wait for our non-existent patronage."

Omi grinned, "Won't you be surprised if someone stops by."

"Yes, I will." He waved off the younger blond with his hands, "Go upstairs and check the windows. I'm positive Ken left the window in his room open like he always does. He wouldn't appreciate coming home to a wet bed." Outside, there was not a dry spot to be seen and the few people outside were running for the cover and safety of home.

Rolling his eyes, Omi left the room, his light words drifting behind him, "I know, but it would serve him right . . ."

Gripping the green, plastic handle of a watering container, Yohji made the rounds with the "ladies" as he liked to call them. He wasn't really the gardening type, never had been, but the flowers had grown on him. It was either that or be driven crazy by their smell that drifted throughout the building. They were so simple at first glance. Beautiful, each in its own way, and reaching towards something unattainable. Simple and beautiful, yet below the surface some were complicated and poisonous.

Danger within beauty.

He stuck two fingers into the dirt of some potted violets, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth in almost-pity. "Looks like you girls could use a drink. How about some water? It does your body good," he chuckled under his breath. If Ken ever heard him talking to the greenery, he would never hear the end of it.

The soft chime of the door opening was followed by the hollow sound of the wind and chilled chiming of the rain before the door fell back with a solid thud. Yohji stilled in his movements. He actually had a customer in this weather? He stood up slowly, turning to eye this person who had dared the storm to come to a flower shop.

A young woman stood there, her red shirt and the black skirt, one that hugged the top of shapely legs, dripping water. She sighed, flipping a strand of long blond hair behind her shoulder, before pursing delicate lips, shifting a plastic bag from one hand to the other and gazing around with crystal-clear blue eyes.

Yohji blessed whatever gods that had sent such a customer to him. Gorgeous and if she wasn't over eighteen he vouched never to have sex again. "Ah, what is a lovely young woman such as yourself doing out in a storm like this with no protection?"

She cocked her head to the side, her lips raised in a soft half-smile. "I have an umbrella," her Japanese was accented from a tongue he couldn't recognize, but her voice was rich, full, and soft, "it just didn't do much good in this weather." She grimaced distastefully at the small puddle pooling beneath her feet. "I'm sorry, I'm getting water all over the place."

"No matter. There is a reason we have tile as our flooring." He smiled charmingly, "Your accent, you're not from around here?"

"No." She raised an eyebrow, "I'm from France."

"Hm . . ." The young woman stood there, white teeth biting her bottom lip, water still dripping from soft, blond strands of hair. "It's a shame for a lady such as yourself to be cold. Would you like some hot tea or cocoa?" He nodded in the direction of the hot pot that Omi kept on the counter, along with various teas and a tin of hot cocoa, just in case. "It wouldn't be a problem."

Those blue eyes regarded him for a moment before she smiled in earnest, "I would appreciate a cup of hot tea . . ."

"As you wish, my lady." He executed a bow, then moved with a flourish to the hot pot to plug it in.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught her shoulders quaking in something close to laughter. She stepped further into the shop and slowly began to peruse her way through the flowers, stopping often to brush a petal or lean closer to smell a flower's fragrance. Her movements were sure, every step completing another, every gesture finished.

She was refined. Elegant. Yes, perhaps this storm had blown some luck Yohji's way in her form. A night spent in her company would be a night of forgetfulness. A night where he could forget blood, shining wire and that cold emptiness within him.

A night to forget that pretty young woman with a spirited soul and blue-black hair.

He watched her, while he waited for the water to warm and she must have felt his eyes on her for she turned in his direction, "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you would grace me with your name. It's a shame not to know a name to go with such a pretty face." The hot pot behind him let out a hissing sound, making it well known that it was finished with its job. Yohji yanked the plug out of the outlet and picked up a Styrofoam cup for her to use.

"Raspberry tea, if you have it. If you don't, anything else will do." She did not say anything more and it didn't look like she was going to anytime soon. He frowned inwardly and grabbed the red packet that she had asked for, placing it in the cup before pouring the hot water over it. Her voice nearly startled him into dropping the hot pot. "My name is Mireille Bouquet." He sat the hot pot down, his lips quirking upward. She looked a little apologetic, tucking a drying strand of blond hair behind her ear. "Bouquet is my family name."

"Ah, Bouquet . . ." his eyes traveled across the many flower displays and a sound that was amused came from her mouth. "My name is Kudou Yohji. Kudou is my family name."

Those red lips lifted in a small smile, "Should I call you Kudou-sa-"

"Just Yohji will be fine. And you?"

She inspected a bunch of sunflowers next to her. "Mireille will do."

He glanced down, her tea was almost done. "So what are you doing in Japan? It's a long way from France."

Mireille looked at him a moment, then laughed lightly. "My friend and I . . . we're supposed to be on a vacation."

The tea had finished soaking and he pulled the tea bag out, dropping it in the trash. "Supposed to be on a vacation makes it sound as if you aren't." He raised an eyebrow, glancing from her to the tea.

"Nothing in it." He nodded and took the cup over to her. "Thank you." She took the tea from him with gentle hands that looked odd with the calluses and scars on them, sniffing the steam rising from the tea and letting out an appreciative sigh. A sip and a grateful look was thrown at him.

Then those crystal blue eyes caught him. "Our trip is a vacation right now, but it has many opportunities to become something more. A new adventure. A new heartache. A new beginning. A new life." Something dark crossed her eyes. Something that struck Yohji to the core. He knew that look. He had seen it on his face many times when he looked in the mirror. She was too young to have seen all that she had seen. But it was gone in an instant and he was sure that he had imagined it. Almost sure. "I think that this trip is already a new beginning. Maybe even a new life."

She was getting too serious. She was making him get too serious. No no no. That was not what he wanted. He plucked a rose that was just starting to open from a bunch of them, knowing that it would not be missed overly much by its companions. He swept it across her cheekbone and those crystal blue eyes widened slightly. "The dawn of every new day can be considered a start to a new life."

Mireille crinkled her nose, pulling back slightly. "You are a flirt, Yohji. You've been hitting on me ever since I walked in here."

"It is only because I have been so struck by your beauty." If she wasn't blushing and wasn't falling for him, but had not left, he saw no reason not to play it up even more.

She snorted indelicately, walked a few steps away from him, then halted her movement. Silence reigned in the small shop, except for the wind that had taken its voice up into a howl and the rain coming down with a fury. Yohji thought if he listened hard enough he could hear Omi messing around with the plants in the back. He had blown it with Mireille it seemed.

"Those are belladonna lilies, aren't they?" Her voice sounded far away and she was pointing at a bunch of large, white blossoms. "They're pretty, but belladonna is poisonous."

He toyed with the rose in one hand, "So are many other flowers. All of them can defend themselves in some way. Poison. Thorns." She was facing him now, her face devoid of all emotion. "Do you know any of the other flowers in here?"

"I recognize many of them." Another sip of her raspberry tea. "My uncle used to have a green house filled with all kinds of flowers." Her fingers tapped the side of the Styrofoam cup, flesh upon manufactured product. "I think that's why I came here."

"Fond memories?"

Those fingers stopped their drumming and she met his eyes with hers, giving a wry smile. A smile that did not reach her eyes. Her crystal blue eyes were blank, like a mirror that only showed reflections of emotions, not the real thing. Like she wasn't really there. "Not really. He died in that green house." Her voice was dead. Nothing like that warm, vibrant voice she had when she had first stepped into the flower shop. "None of my memories having to do with flowers are pleasant, really. I wonder why they made me come here . . ."

"Sometimes we try to correct things we have done or we have seen." He twirled the rose between his fingers, watching her eyes, feeling he was dancing on the edge of death's blade. It was familiar, he welcomed it. "I know all to well." A flash of blue-black hair. Bright, happy eyes. The thud of a body. Bright red blood. "Falling for a second time . . . or was it a third? Funny how things can blur into one big hurt." Dead brown eyes. Swishing hair. Betraying laughter. "I couldn't see things the way they were. I wanted to change it. Make it different. Happier." Light on red glass. Brown eyes glaring. Flash of silver wire. Strangled breath dying into silence. "I never could and I will never try again."

He blinked and Mireille stood before him, her face turned gently to the side. The brilliant and distinct red of a rose tucked into her blond locks, his hand still hovering over it. He pulled it away. She giggled softly. "So, are you saying I should stay away from flowers?"

Pretty, crystal blue eyes filled with mirth gazed at him and she placed the empty Styrofoam cup she held on a display table. "No. I'm just saying not to try and change your memories into something good. Or doing something to make them seem that way."

"Wise words." She ran her hand through her hair, looking at him through her eyelashes. Was she playing coy with him? Yes, she was. Couldn't this Mireille stick to one facet of her personality? Did he really care? "I want to buy these." The quickness with which she changed subjects startled him and he found a pot of planted daisies shoved under his face. They were the plain, garden-variety. Usually they were only used to fill out a bouquet

He stumbled back a few steps. She smirked at him. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?" She shrugged. He sighed and gestured her over to the register with him. He eyed the flowers. "Are you sure you want those? I would think you would want something more . . ."

"Fanciful? Maybe, but this is for my friend. She likes simple things." Gently smiling, she placed the daisies next to him.

"You love her? Your friend?" he questioned.

"There was once an author that wrote 'Even when I'm surrounded by people, I'm always alone.' At times, it is the truth and at others, it isn't." A finger touched a white petal of a daisy. "She's like my sister." She looked curiously at him. "Do you have anyone you love like that?"

He thought. He thought of a certain group of three young men. They all clashed at one point and time. They would again, but something always pulled them back together. And it was never /just/ the call of duty. "I have three bumbling fools that are my brothers," he murmured to her as he gently placed the potted daisies in a small box he had pulled from underneath the counter.

"That's good. No one should be alone." She was rummaging through the plastic bag, before she popped up triumphantly with a stuffed toy kitten. It looked newly bought, its black fur shiny and its big blue eyes glossy with newness. "Here. You take it. I was going to give it to my friend, but the more I think about it, the more I think she wouldn't want it."

He felt his eyebrows raise. She took in his look and shook her head. "It has something to with memories and the past. Like many things do." A graceful hand patted the stuffed animal on its head. "And really, it looks nothing like that cat I was trying to find her. I'm sure you'll find some use for it."

"I'm sure I will." He gave her the boxed plant and before she could open her mouth, he answered. "No charge. A gift for a gift."

Mireille took the plant. "So it shall be." She placed it, delicately, within her plastic bag. "It was nice meeting you. I almost hope we meet again."

"Under good circumstances, of course."

"Yes, good circumstances. I do not think I would want to meet you in bad circumstances." For a moment they stared at each other. It was as if they knew each other so well they could be best friends . . . or worst enemies. As if they were blindly playing a game, not fully comprehending how to play it. And it was the truth, Yohji acknowledged. The truth.

The opening of the door allowed the sounds of the howling wind screaming in rage and the beating rain pounding out its anger onto the world even louder. Then the door swung shut and nature's fury was locked outside of the warm flower shop and Mireille was gone. The storm had swallowed her up and taken her away.

It was almost as if she had never been her. Yohji was nearly willing to pretend it was a hallucination, if it hadn't been for that puddle of water on the tiles that was still drying, that Styrofoam cup on one of the flower stands, or the toy kitten sitting in front of him.

"Yohji-kun?" Omi stepped out into the flower shop. "I thought I heard the door open."

He picked up the stuffed cat with its soft fur and soft body. The store's lights were reflected back to him in its glassy eyes. "You did. It was just somebody leaving."

"A customer?" Omi's big eyes glanced at the ominous storm outside, probably unbelieving the someone would be out to visit a flower shop at a time like this.

"A strange customer. She really didn't buy anything." He brushed a hand through his honey-blond locks, watching the rain beat against the roads and buildings. Thump. Thumpitythump. Thump thump thumpity thump. If he stared out there long enough, maybe he would see her again.

Danger within beauty . . . or maybe it was beauty within danger. Come to think of it, he had never been very good at telling them apart.

Omi's voice drew him out of his musings. "She?" The younger boy furrowed his brow, before shrugging and letting an outwardly careless smile. "Well, she certainly has you off in the clouds. Did she give you that?" His eyed the stuffed cat somewhat wistfully.

"More like an exchange." Yohji looked down at his youngest partner, who had a perplexed expression on his face. That face looked so young and those eyes so old. Omi was the youngest one of them, yet the oldest. A body made of flesh that was full of contradictions.

There was a lull in the tempest outside. "Here, Omi. You take it." He thrust the stuffed kitten into Omi's arms, patting the kid's head as he walked by towards the windows.

"B-but Yohji-kun-"

"It's nothing. I'm not that fond of stuffed animals." He craved another cigarette, wanted to feel that comforting slim cylinder between his fingers while its burning smoke crawled its way though his lungs. He was nerve-wracked. He wanted his nicotine. "Plus, I don't think she meant it as a gift for me, so no objections, kido."

The cuddly, inanimate object was tucked underneath one of Omi's arms and the look on his face said that he didn't have a clue on what to do with it or with Yohji's slightly abnormal behavior. Yohji grinned vexingly, "Don't think too hard on it, kid. Now why don't you go upstairs and pick out a movie to watch or something. I'll join you after I close up."

Omi stared at him, trying to figure him out. After a moment he gave a little smile and started walking towards the stairs in the back. "Thank you, Yohji," he held up Yohji--Mireille's--gift, "for the cat."

"Like I said, no biggie. Now, go upstairs, you runt," Yohji said affectionately, "I'll be up in a few minutes."

The kid's smile grew bigger and he fled upstairs. Omi took joy from simple things, things that might have been an everyday occurrence had he lived a normal life. But what was a normal life? Yohji couldn't quite remember. It certainly wasn't killing someone at least once a week. Was it?

Some things were better left unanswered, he thought, as he shut the blinds on one of the windows, blocking out the sight of the storm's madness. Just like it was better left that some memories were left alone.

Asuka . . .

It was then that he thought he saw her. Standing across the street, the storm all around, her blond her barely visible, but those crystal blue eyes of hers shockingly so. Crystal blue eyes that darkened with emotions too indescribable for words. Deadly, haunted emotions.

Just like they had looked like during that talk of flowers.

Crystal blue eyes of a killer.

He spun around to get a better look at her when he realized that it was not Mireille he saw.

It was his own reflection.


End file.
